The Damned Utd by David Peace (easy readers txt) 📕

stadium that means no more money for transfers, no more money for players and no more money for you.

You would protest to the chairman, but he is not speaking to you. You would protest to the board, but they are not speaking to you; no one is but Jack Kirkland:

‘I’m going to give you some good advice,’ he tells you. ‘No matter how good you are, or how powerful you think you are, the chairman is the boss, then come the directors and the secretary, then come the fans and the players, and finally and last of bloody all comes the fucking manager.’

But you’ve already got your fingers in your ears and your eyes on the clock; hour by hour, minute by minute, things just getting worse and worse –

Fingers in your ears, your eyes on the clock –

There is no beginning. There is no end.

* * *

There is no one in the dining room when I get down there. Breakfast has finished. The waiters clearing away the cups and the plates. The team gone. I sit down and drain the last dregs from a cold pot of tea and scrape a last bit of butter over a cold slice of toast. The waiters watching me from the doors to the kitchen –

‘Have a seat,’ I tell them. ‘Pull up a pew and let’s have a chat.’

But the waiters stay where they are by the door to the kitchen, watching me.

‘I’ll tell you this story, shall I?’ I ask them. ‘Frank Sinatra was once in this bar late at night in Palm Springs, just him and the barman, the barman tidying up and getting ready to shut up shop for the night when, suddenly, the door opens and in runs this woman and says, “Excuse me! Excuse me! Do you have a jukebox in here?” And Frank Sinatra turns around and looks her right in the face and says, “Excuse me? What did you say?” And so the woman says again, “Do they have a jukebox in here?” So Frank looks around the room and then turns back to her and says, “Doesn’t look like it but, if you want, I’ll sing for you.” And the woman says, “No thanks.” And she turns and walks out. So, anyway, the barman is very embarrassed and he says, “She obviously didn’t recognize you, Mr Sinatra.” But Frank just shrugs and says, “Or maybe she did.”’

The waiters walk over to my table by the window. The waiters have found their courage now, their pens and their pieces of paper –

‘He met me, you know,’ I tell them, as I sign my name for them –

‘Who did?’ they ask.

‘Frank Sinatra.’

* * *

You have been told there is no money. You have been told not to buy any new players. You have been told there is no money for transfers. But you lose 1–0 at Coventry and you know you have to buy some new players. You make a telephone call. You drive down to London. To the Churchill Hotel.

‘I hear you are interested in winning a Championship medal?’

‘Who wouldn’t be?’

‘Someone who already had one.’

Bobby Moore smiles. Bobby Moore grins. Bobby Moore, captain of West Ham and England. Bobby Moore, World Cup winner and national treasure.

‘Would you play for Derby County?’ you ask him.

Bobby Moore lights another fag. Bobby Moore laughs, ‘Why not?’

‘That’ll do for me,’ you tell him and take him for lunch in the restaurant.

‘I’m afraid,’ begins the maître d’hôtel at the door, ‘that Mr Moore is not dressed appropriately for our restaurant …’

‘Listen to me,’ you tell him. ‘My team will never stay here again if my player can’t sit in this restaurant, my player who has won the World Cup for this country, my player who has done more for this bloody country than any other person you have ever had in your fucking little restaurant!’

‘I don’t play for you yet,’ whispers Bobby Moore.

‘Shut up!’ you tell him. ‘You’re my player. I’ll ring Ron straight after lunch.’

* * *

The team will be training, having their rub-downs and their massages, lunch back at the hotel and then a short nap. I meet the London press in the hotel bar. I confirm that Madeley and McKenzie are still injured and will not play tonight. I admit that Yorath will. I deny any interest in Burnley’s captain Dobson. I refuse to talk about Bremner and Giles and tomorrow’s FA Disciplinary Committee. I have a couple of drinks with a couple of journalists and then a long, long lunch with David Coleman. Half an hour late back to the hotel, I go up to my room, throw my clothes in my case and take the coach with the team to Loftus Road.

* * *

You do not make an appointment. You do not telephone. You go straight to Upton Park. You do not wait in line and you do not knock on Ron Greenwood’s door. You just walk right into his office and tell him, ‘I’m here for a chat. Now, have you got any whisky?’

Ron Greenwood gets to his feet. Ron Greenwood gets you a whisky.

‘Any water?’ you ask him. ‘I am driving.’

‘The kitchen’s just round the corner,’ he tells you.

You go off to find the kitchen. You get the receptionist to take you up to the directors’ box. You ask her all sorts of questions about West Ham United, about Ron Greenwood and Bobby Moore –

Twenty minutes later, you’re back in Ron’s office –

‘I’ve been having a good look around this place,’ you tell him. ‘Isn’t it lovely? All nice and spruce. You don’t know